Liam Mackenzie

2016

My name is Jonathan. I am not special or strange. Sometimes I think that my only attribute to this world is that I am a white boy. I always find myself daydreaming about awful events happening to me, just so I would be noticed. My father died ten years ago and I now live alone with my mother, Aneska. We love each other, but sometimes I find her drifting away from reality. Sometimes she locks herself in the cellar for days. Each time I sit by the door waiting for her to come out, trying to break her down with my sobs. When I wake up this morning I can feel that this will be one of those days. As I crawl out of my worn out straw bed I can already hear my mother cooking away in the kitchen. She is humming an old folk song that she loves.

“When the bird all sing, and the apples fall, me and my loved one skip through the…”

“Mother,” I say, interrupting her tune.

“Oh Jonathan, come here and help me find the flour. I am just preparing a welcoming cake for your father.”

I sigh, but help her stir the corn and egg based mixture. You have to understand, my mother doesn’t realize my father is dead. Long ago when I was a baby, a man came to our door to tell us what had happened to my father. When my mother opened the door the man’s eyes were red from crying and he had the same red pouch, all soldiers have to wear.

“I have some terribly sad news. Your husband, and my colleague has died.” My mother simply stared at him with teary eyes. Then she slowly backed away and stumbled into the cellar. She stayed in that cellar for the longest time in ten years, 43 hours. I don’t even know what she does in there. Sometimes I hear a plate break or the faint sound of her humming, but never anything that could tell me what she does. My mother makes the same cake every two or so months. Each time in the morning she is happy and joyful, and by the end of the day she is debilitated and sad. Today she seems even more delighted than usual, so I know we will be ending the night in tears. I take the flour out of the cupboard and hand it to her.

“Oh, thank you darling, and do you remember if your father is coming home on Tuesday or Wednesday?” When my mother asks questions like this, all I can do is shrug my shoulders and ignore her. I’m helpless. I hobble up our tattered stairs, dodging the giant holes we have in each step. I head to the small pile of clothing we have and pick out a white jabot and a pair of black breeches. I then resume helping my mother in the kitchen. By this point she has forgotten that I have helped her at all and I get to play this game were I act like I just woke up. It gets old fast.

A few times this year we have gotten letters from the government. Dear Mrs. Bircly, We have been alerted by an anonymous source that you have performed witchcraft in the basement of your dwelling. The source has assured us that you have not yet done anything harmful, but you will still need to come into JamesTown to be interviewed before we can allow you to proceed with your everyday life.

Sincerely, The House of Burgesses

We have gotten a few of these letters, each one getting more aggressive. You can imagine my anxiety when I open our mail carrier. Today I slowly walk up, praying that I will not see the dreaded initials of the government, H.B. Luckily I don’t see anything from them, and I take a breath.

“Were you looking for a letter from the Burgesses? You don’t believe them, do you? Your father will understand, and he will go straight to the courthouse to tell those dreadful men off.” I realize that my mother is not as senile as I thought. She has found me sneaking into our mail, and I can tell she will scold me. She brings me into the other room to give me a hit. The sad thing about this is that she doesn’t have enough strength to hurt me at all, so every time she tries to hit me, it feels more like she is patting my back. This just reminds me of how ill she actually is.

Sometimes the neighbors see her through the windows, stumbling around and baking. I know that they judge her. It is only about 13:20 and I have a lot of sewing to get done. My mother works for the millner and is supposed to make ten dresses a month. She usually only makes about four, but the millner is my father’s brother’s wife, and she understands her grieving process. I have asked my mother to go to school for my whole life. I see all of the rich kids heading off to the only school in Virginia. It’s called the James Henry school and it costs a 200 pounds a year.

As I just start to help my mother in the living room, I hear a knock on the door. We hardly ever get visitors, so this both excites me and scares me. Every time I open the door for somebody I imagine my father staring back at me, but this time I see a tall scruff man. He is wearing a white braid and has used white powder to color his hair.

“Is there an Aneska Bircley here?” I call for her to come to the door.

“And may I ask what is the matter?” she exclaims, slightly angrily.

“Mrs Birclay, sources have come to us for the fourth time, and have confirmed that you have made witch cake. We will have to perform a series of tests on you and most likely you will be charged.” I start breathing heavily and a hundred fears run into my mind. Will I be an orphan? WIll they kill her? Is she a witch? Does she perform witchcraft in that cellar? What if she’s not a witch? Will we have to leave our home?Will I grow up in a rich family if she dies? Should we escape? Obviously my mother is thinking similar thoughts, because I can see her blinking rapidly, which is what she does when she is concentrating. I can almost see her train of thought, going from an escape plan to acceptance. I am clinging to my mother, both of us shaking unnaturally. I walk with her just outside the door when I realize that the man is pulling at my arm. He’s trying to pry my and my mother away! He’s trying to make her leave me, and that will not happen.

“She will not leave me,” I scream,

“She is my mommy. She is mine!” But the man just keeps prying at my arm. Tears are streaming down my and my mother’s faces, and I know that he will soon separate us. He finally starts prying my fingers off her arm, and when he finally gets me off, he pulls her to his tiny carriage. The neighbors have seen her. As I think about all the evidence they must have on her from over the years, it becomes more and more clear to me that she will be convicted. I stare at them leaving my home and just keep staring. It soon starts to get dark, and I finally realize that she is not coming back. I will never see her again.